


like a star in the dark night

by flabberu



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, But That Isn't Really Important, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wingfic, begins during their third year and shows a bit of their university life?, honestly it will give you cavities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flabberu/pseuds/flabberu
Summary: On the air, they move like a well-oiled machine, attracting each other like magnets.(Honestly, there’s nothing more exhilarating than falling in love, even though you have wings to prevent you from crashing to the ground.)or: the wingfic iwaoi with lots of domestic fluff nobody asked for





	like a star in the dark night

**Author's Note:**

> okay so I’ve working on this shit since fucking _january_. i had problems writing it properly but this will do imo  
>  wingfics are my drug right after changfelix and yoonmin so here u have: wingfic iwaoi with a side of hanamatsu for ur soul, certified as domestic af  
> title comes from WINNER – love me love me  
> also i apologize for any mistakes, english isn’t my first language whoops

i.

Hajime is the only one allowed to touch Oikawa’s wings—it’s one of those things that nobody questions or points out, unless they want to receive a jab at the ribs for being nosy, courtesy of Yahaba.

Not even Hanamaki or Matsukawa are brave enough to make jokes about it and face Hajime’s resulting anger, so everyone prefers to stay quiet when Oikawa stops practicing his serves, pokes slightly at Hajime’s arms or gives a tug at the hem of his jersey to get his attention, and softly says that his wings are aching.

“Why don’t you let other people groom ‘em?” Hajime asks one evening after practice. They’re both tired and sweaty, but Oikawa doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest as long as Hajime continues to groom the feathers back in place.

“Iwa-chan’s special,” Oikawa replies without missing a beat, biting at his thumb nail with his eyes fixed on the TV’s screen, and Hajime hums thoughtfully—they don’t actually need to explain their reasons by now, mostly because they’re too deep to play pretend.

In Oikawa’s wings people often see talent, carefully cultivated by years and years of training. They see power, reliability and natural talent. But then Hajime stops looking at the court, _sees_ and immediately notices all of the little details—the way the left wing trembles from exertion, feathers drenched with sweat, and the right one is dropping a little, probably because Oikawa’s knee is acting up.

(The wings are there, telling Hajime all of the things Oikawa wants to keep to himself.)

“You’re also the only one that grooms my wings, Oikawa,” Hajime mumbles, running his fingers through the feathers at the base and reveling on the pleased hiss that comes from between Oikawa’s teeth.

“Of course I know that, Iwa-chan, who else would?” he says petulantly, the pout clear as water in his voice, and Hajime smiles.

(He wouldn’t change this for anything.)

 

ii.

Tooru always listens to Hajime’s ramblings about his wings with the same focus he applies to volleyball—Hajime usually gets in those moods while they’re both lying down in bed without the worry of being on schedule, and just _talks_ about how pretty are Tooru’s wings.

He can’t really say Hajime is wrong, though, because he has _eyes_ and there are many articles on the internet regarding the beauty of his feathers, but in his humble opinion Hajime’s wings are a thousand times better, even if they’re a little bit smaller than Tooru’s.

“They’re so soft,” Tooru mumbles one morning right after he wakes up, nuzzling lovingly against one of the chocolate-colored wings. The bed is warm and Hajime lets out a sleepy sigh as he scoots closer to Tooru, seeking his warmth.

“Good mornin’, Tooru.”

(His heart soars.)

 

iii.

Hajime wakes up to the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen and he groans against the pillow—he likes it better when he wakes up and Tooru is curled by his side, snoring softly. It’s a sight he’s grown used to after fourteen years knowing Tooru and it still makes Hajime smile like a lovesick puppy.

However, today he’s surprised that Tooru didn’t drool all over him, like many other times that were promptly followed by utter denial, because apparently being Oikawa Tooru—volleyball player extraordinaire and first-class alien fanboy—also meant he absolutely did _not_ drool, or snore, or anything that could be considered embarrassing.

(Honestly, the things Hajime has to deal with.)

He turns his head to peek at the digital clock on the bedside table and grimaces when it flashes a bright **7:50 AM** at him. Hajime _hates_ waking up late, even in his free days, because he always get that brief moment of panic where he thinks: _fuck, I’m late for practice._

It’s definitely a relief that they don’t have to wake up at ungodly hours to go to school anymore, but Hajime feels the pang of nostalgia regardless—he remembers clapping his teammates on the back after scoring a point, spiking the ball with all of his strength, smiling at Tooru after a particularly good toss.

(He misses it; the thrill, the camaraderie, the sting in his palm.)

Hajime walks sleepily to the kitchen with his bare feet and his wings pressed tightly against his back, so he doesn’t accidentally break another of the framed pictures hanging on the walls—Tooru never fails to mock Hajime for how clumsy he is before drinking coffee and brushing his teeth.

Inside the kitchen the smell of bacon and toast is even stronger and Tooru stands calmly in front of the stove, an apron tied over his old volleyball jersey and a pair of hairpins holding his brown curls back. His wings then flap slightly in the air, probably in an unconscious attempt to stretch them a bit, and catch the sunlight for a moment, leaving Hajime to stare mesmerized from the doorway.

( _I’m so stupid_ , he muses, _thinking about the past when I’ve got my future cooking breakfast for me_.)

He misses many things about high school—but having Tooru in his life right now is something he wouldn’t change, even if he had the chance to do it.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud, Iwa-chan.”

The sizzling of the pan stops and Tooru turns around, grinning. His brown eyes are half open, his voice still rough from sleep, and his nose is cold when he comes closer and nuzzles Hajime’s neck.

Tooru—with his sleepy smiles, his cold hands and his brown wings that look like pure gold in the sunlight—is definitely worth it.

(Even if he snores and drools all over Hajime’s chest every night.)

“Shut up, Tooru,” he replies, and there’s no bite in his voice.

 

iv.

When they were children, Iwaizumi’s wings used to be bigger than Tooru’s—they were always ruffled and tended to stretch towards Tooru whenever they were standing closely, even if Iwaizumi fiercely denies it.

(He’s always been an awful liar, in Tooru’s opinion.)

Because of that, Tooru liked to hide under them, hugging Iwaizumi as the wings covered them both with white-streaked feathers. Iwaizumi never brought it up, even though he preferred to go outside and catch some bugs under the sun.

And, despite the passing of the years, it continues to be one of those habits he can’t really let go—sometimes, when university is too stressful and the volleyball games are getting frustrating, he sits with Iwaizumi on their couch and hugs him, knowing that Iwaizumi will understand and wrap his wings around Tooru’s body.

(Tooru always melts into the touch, lulled to sleep by the constant beating of Hajime’s heart under his ear and the distracted hand that scratches the nape of his neck.

It feels like home.)

 

v.

If there’s something that still amazes Takahiro even after years knowing the pair of idiots, it is seeing them fly together.

(Not that he’s planning on ever telling them that, obviously.)

On the air, they move like a well-oiled machine, attracting each other like magnets—Oikawa dives suddenly, his brown wings pressed tightly against his body, and Iwaizumi follows closely behind, as if he already knows what Oikawa wants to do.

Iwaizumi isn’t a golden eagle like Oikawa. Takahiro noticed that the second he stepped inside the gym back during their first year of high school, but Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to mind being an osprey  anyway—probably, with a friend like Oikawa, he got used to flying faster without meaning to.

(He’s sure as hell he hasn’t seen an osprey like Iwaizumi before.)

They twirl and dance like they’ve choreographed the whole thing—like they’ve designed it specially to look mesmerizing—and Takahiro stares at them, knowing that’s not the case.

Issei is leaning against his shoulder, his own black wing extending behind Takahiro and covering his back protectively, and Takahiro grins, feeling a little embarrassed by the obvious display of affection. 

“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” Issei whispers and Takahiro hums affirmatively, his hand finding Issei’s and intertwining their fingers together. “You’d think they’ve practiced that shit.”

“Nah, the assholes are absolutely natural,” Takahiro replies and Issei lets out a low chuckle. “They look so happy together.”

“I bet we’re prettier.”

“ _Jeez_ , shut up, you _sap_.”

Issei kisses Takahiro soundly on the cheek, grinning the whole time, and Oikawa gives a surprised yelp when Iwaizumi manages to tackle him.

(Honestly, there’s nothing more exhilarating than falling in love, even though you have wings to prevent you from crashing to the ground.)

**Author's Note:**

> for some reason in this fic iwaizumi’s drabbles are _a lot_ longer idk  
>  (javier find me el doruado)  
> #anpanman


End file.
